


Mon pays et Paris

by Belphegor



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Episode Tag: s2e10-11 A Tiger Hunt in Paris, Family, Gen, Missing Scene, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belphegor/pseuds/Belphegor
Summary: While in Paris with Hogan to rescue Tiger, LeBeau finds a familiar face and gets a sense of what his home has turned into.
Kudos: 16





	Mon pays et Paris

Marguerite resisted the urge to shove her hands in her pockets to warm them. There was a reason, she thought, that they didn’t sing about November in Paris.

Then again, she reasoned as she side-stepped deftly to avoid a puddle, even April in Paris wasn’t what it used to be, either.

Most of the people she could see walking down the avenue certainly didn’t look like they had been facing the same three and a half years of occupation she had. Despite the now characteristic sounds of wooden soles clacking against the pavement, large hats were perched at jaunty angles on the back of women’s heads, some men even wore leather jackets, and cars drove up and down from both ends of the avenue, from the Champs-Élysées and across the Seine. Most buildings had at least one smoking chimney.

If Marguerite had harboured some doubts that she was now in the swanky part of town, they would have evaporated instantly. People here had to be spending fortunes in black market clothes and coal. It was hard to picture those men and women, with their Lanvin coats and silk stockings, queuing at five in the morning like Marguerite was used to, hoping her meagre ration cards would be enough to cover food and heat for the week.

Her own lodgings, while somewhat modest, were not exactly poor, and her neighbourhood was comprised of little bistros, second-hand clothes shops, and used bookstores; not the fancy restaurants and private mansions along this avenue, but hardly mediocre. Nevertheless, she considered the whole of Paris her hometown, not just the streets around her flat. She usually liked strolling through the Eighth Arrondissement, along the Seine or through the Parc Monceau. Today, however, she felt that should a policeman – or worse, a Feldgendarm – glance at her, he would immediately tell she didn’t belong here, and logically suspect her of being up to something.

She breathed in deeply, and kept walking.

November was rather kinder today that it had been the week before. The air was crisp and cold, the pavement still shiny with recent rain, but the sky was blue and the sun was doing its best to raise the temperature above ten degrees1. The noon light gave the stone façades a colour between chalk and buttercream and shone through the naked branches of the trees lining up the avenue. All in all, one could do worse for a clandestine appointment.

Marguerite spotted the higher building of the Hôtel Prince-de-Galles before she did its lower counterpart next door, the George-V. This was where she was supposed to meet with the foreign Underground agents and find a place to hide the car they brought. She knew the make and the plate of the car by rote – Mercedes Benz, WH65047. A small, simple mission, like so many she’d had to carry out for the past three years. Almost routine.

Among the passers-by, a few German soldiers sauntered around in groups of two or three, chatting, busy gazing around them or at the girl on their arm. Nobody even gave her a second glance. She took another deep breath.

_I’ll be fine._

There was a café that did not look too expensive right in front of the hotel, across the avenue. Marguerite took one look at the prices and sighed inwardly. Coffee – which meant ‘ersatz’ these days – was even more overpriced than what she was used to. She ordered a tisane and took the driest seat in the terrace. And waited.

Around her, despite the stains of verdigris uniforms and of posters on the walls promoting collaboration with Germany and denouncing ‘enemies of the state’ such as Jews or the Resistance, Paris kept on living.

* * *

“The Louvre, Place de la Concorde, the Grand and Petit Palais… I didn’t tell you to take the scenic route, LeBeau.”

“It was that or take the Champs-Élysées, mon Colonel, but you said we had to get there fast.”

“I thought the hotel was just a hundred yards from the Champs-Élysées!”

“Yes, but the traffic is unbelievable.” LeBeau shot a wistful glance into the left wing mirror, which showed more horse-driven carriages and pedicabs than cars. “Or it used to be, before the war.”

As the trees lining the Seine cleared, he suddenly had a clear view of the Eiffel Tower in the near distance. The sight sent a jab somewhere inside his ribcage and he had to brake a little sharply to avoid hitting a car whose driver was obviously in more of a hurry than he was.

“Steady, LeBeau,” came Hogan’s voice from his right. “We’re trying to get to a hotel, not a hospital.”

“Sorry, mon Colonel,” muttered LeBeau, shifting his focus to the street again. “It’s just that I hadn’t seen her for a very long time.”

“Seen wh—oh.”

Hogan turned on his seat to get a better look. LeBeau felt a faint, brief stab of jealousy that he couldn’t do the same. He hadn’t even been able to see properly any of the monuments since they had entered the capital, focused as he had been on the pedestrians, the bikes, and the rest of the traffic, and the Lady of Iron was special in her own way.

When Hogan was facing forwards again, he was smiling the slightest of smiles.

“Well, now I can say I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower. Maybe the scenic route wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.”

LeBeau couldn’t help but crack a small smirk of his own.

“If Klink and Schultz get to play tourists… Wait, we’re here.”

“Okay, pull up in front of the hotel. The Underground contact should be here any minute.”

“Sure. Mon Colonel?” LeBeau asked as Hogan was halfway out the car. “If the black market people really get hold of the car and it disappears, how do we get back to camp? And what about Schultz and Klink?”

Hogan’s face darkened for a second, showing the tension that had not really left him since the staff car had driven off out of Stalag XIII. Whatever part of his brain that was not scheming was entirely focused on worrying about Tiger.

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out,” he said finally as he started to heft bags and suitcases on the trolley a bellboy had provided. “In the meantime, ask for Mr Frank Durkin when you get back. With any luck, we’ll be on the local Gestapo’s radar pretty quick.”

“Now there’s something you don’t hear often,” muttered LeBeau. “Not from normal people, anyway.”

Hogan flashed him a grin and disappeared behind the bellboy and a pile of luggage on wheels.

LeBeau let his gaze wander on the different faces on the avenue, wondering what the Underground contact would look like. He let the motor run and had an excuse prepared in case someone questioned the presence of a car parked right in front of the George-V; when he spotted a woman in the rear view mirror approaching the car with a purposeful step, he was ready.

And then his mouth fell open while the woman’s face went slack with shock.

“Marguerite!?”

“…Louis?”

“C’est toi qui2—”

“Qu’est-ce que tu3—”

They both stopped talking at the same time and stared at each other. LeBeau was still recovering from the stupefaction when Marguerite said tentatively, “Tiger, tiger, burning bright?”

The code. LeBeau’s eyes went very round.

“In the forests of the night,” he completed in a small voice. “You’re the Underground contact.”

“On peut aussi parler français, tu sais,4” she pointed out sharply.

LeBeau shook his head with a wry smile and replied in the same language, “Yeah. I kind of lost the habit. Get in.”

She did, and LeBeau noticed her hand shook a little when she banged the door shut. Then again, he was gripping the wheel so tight it was straining the leather of his gloves, and his heart was racing.

“Where are we going, then?”

“Follow the avenue, turn right at the Champs-Élysées, then turn right on rue Lincoln. There’s a restaurant we can park near to that black market people traffic in.” Marguerite opened her mouth to add something, but seemed to change her mind and kept mostly silent all the way to the restaurant. LeBeau didn’t say anything, either, choosing to focus on driving and trying to ignore the giant Nazi flags hanging off some of the classical façades. Not only did it make his blood boil and his skin crawl, it jerked him out of the sense of familiarity the streets of Paris usually had for him. His beloved city was not herself anymore.

If the fleeting temptation he’d had earlier to drop everything and stay in Paris for good had been more than wishful thinking, this would have been enough to impress upon him that, even if he found himself on his street in front of his block of flats, he wouldn’t be coming home any time soon.

The small car park near the restaurant was devoid of cars and screened from the street by several plane trees that hadn’t lost all their foliage yet. LeBeau and Marguerite glanced at one other, and, without a word, threw themselves into each other’s arms and held each other fiercely.

The dashboard and the gear stick made the hug very awkward, but neither cared one bit.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” muttered Marguerite against his neck. “We all thought you died during the débâcle. Papa cried when we finally got your first letter.”

Louis, too moved to say anything, only held her tighter. She was thinner under her coat, the same coat he had heard her say years ago that she should replace it with a new one ‘next autumn’. Her hair had grown longer, the humidity still hanging in the air making it even frizzier than usual despite her obvious attempt to straighten it. Even her scent had changed slightly; he remembered a mention in one of her letters last year that her favourite orange blossom soap had been unobtainable for a couple of years and she’d been making her own soap for some time now.

When they both pulled away, eyes stinging and throats closed, he was struck by how different she looked, too. This was a face he’d known and seen change since she was born, but the three years he had missed had left their mark more than they would have before the war.

His sister was two years younger than him, but she had got older at the same pace he had.

“When did you escape from the Stalag?” Marguerite asked, her voice nearly as steady as it should be. “Have you seen Maman and Papa yet? Adèle is going to be thrilled – God, Louis, I still can’t believe you’re—”

Louis cut her off quickly. “I didn’t… really escape, I’m on a mission.”

Marguerite eyed him with a darker expression.

“Don’t tell me you’re going back. You can’t. I’ll hide you, I’ll smuggle you, I’ll kidnap you if I have to, but I’m not letting you go back there.”

A chuckle escaped him in spite of the situation. His sister hadn’t changed that much, after all.

“Just… Trust me on this one, all right? You can’t tell anyone you saw me. Anyone at all. Not even Adèle and the parents.”

Marguerite shot him a wounded look.

“I know how to keep a secret, Louis; I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing if I didn’t. It’s just that when Maman’s, Papa’s, and Adèle’s letters start coming back unopened they will know something’s up.”

“Well… Not necessarily.” Louis checked his wristwatch. Colonel Hogan must be waiting; it was high time he got back to the hotel, even though it was the last place he wanted to be right now. “Look,” he said with a sigh he couldn’t quite suppress, “if all goes well, I might be able to see you later. We’ll have time to talk then.”

Marguerite looked like she wanted to object, but thought better of it. She had always been the most pragmatic of the four siblings, down to earth and dependable.

“Call me at work and leave a message,” she said after a second’s reflection. “A colleague of mine owes me a favour, she’ll cover for me. You remember the number, don’t you?”

Louis did. Marguerite didn’t have a telephone at home, so the post office she worked at was one of the few on the short list he used to keep near the telephone in his own flat. It felt decades ago instead of years, but the numbers were still engraved in his memory.

“Good. I have to go, anyway, my lunch break will be over by the time I get back.”

A sneaking suspicion came to his mind.

“Did you even _have_ lunch?”

“I had a cup of herbal tea and a mouthful of overpriced cake waiting for you.”

“That hardly counts!” he exclaimed, genuinely shocked.

Marguerite smiled warmly for the first time since they’d recognised each other.

“There’s the brother I know and love. Good to know you’re still worse than Maman.”

The half-joke was old – and somewhat justified, Louis had to admit – but this time his grin got stuck in his throat.

“It’s good to see you, Marguerite.”

Recognising they weren’t playing anymore, Marguerite nodded, her own smile trembling ever so slightly.

“You too, Louis. See you very soon.”

“I hope so.”

They kissed each other on both cheeks, their usual goodbye, and parted ways without looking back. The staff car remained where it was under the trees, too large for the little car park, looking out of place and slightly ridiculous.

* * *

LeBeau was so lost in thought that he was in front of the hotel in what seemed like no time at all. The unexpected encounter still was at the forefront of his mind as he walked up the stairs and down the corridor; he didn’t notice that the door to Colonel Hogan’s room was on the ground, not ajar, until the very last second. Backsheider’s crony caught him just as he tried to run.

In the end, Hogan worked his usual magic and got an interview with Tiger under the pretext of interrogating her. LeBeau ran to the first taxiphone5 he could find on the avenue and dialled the Eleventh Arrondissement’s post office’s number.

* * *

The little café Marguerite had suggested had the advantage of being located two minutes from the Gestapo headquarters where Hogan was supposed to be interrogating Tiger; it was also quite remote from their usual haunts, while not so fancy that LeBeau felt out of place. Bad enough that he felt a mix of exhilaration at hearing and seeing French everywhere, and confusion and anger at how different Paris now felt to him. Perhaps it was because he’d dreamed so much of getting back to his city for the last three years; or perhaps it was the incongruity of actually being back and not being able to tell or see anyone; or perhaps it was the constant reminders that he was not, as such, home, what with the German soldiers ambling about as though they owned the place and the street signs in German black-letter to all facilities – hospitals, cinemas, administrations – dwarfing the actual French street names written underneath.

It was enough to make Louis feel a stranger in his own country. The thought made him just a little bit sick.

His heart hammering in his chest, he pushed open the door of the café and entered.

To his relief, Marguerite was already there, sitting at a table for two in the back – not far from the emergency exit, he couldn’t help but notice.

He also couldn’t help the jolt his heart gave at the sight of his sister, as though this was nothing more than one of their ‘catching-up’ dates, before the war, before the Stalag and the Underground, and before seeing each other became dangerous not only for them, but for the whole family.

Marguerite watched him take a chair and sit down beside her, her eyes very bright. Perhaps she was thinking along the same lines.

Evidently she had waited for him to order; the waitress came over as soon as he was settled at the table. She looked to him for instructions, but Marguerite beat him to the punch and said, “Two Nationals, please.”

When the girl was out of earshot, Louis looked at his sister, confused. “What’s a National?”

“A ‘café national’. One third coffee, two thirds ersatz. Selling coffee’s been illegal since ‘41 – if you’d asked for ‘coffee’, it would have been a dead giveaway you didn’t spend the last couple of years here. Your clothes are conspicuous enough.” She rubbed her fingers absently, and Louis was tempted to do the same. Their table was perfect in case they needed a quick getaway, but they were right in the middle of a draft. “Don’t expect sugar, either,” she added, almost apologetically.

Something sank in the pit of Louis’s stomach, but he quickly rallied.

“That’s all right. I’m used to taking my coffee black by now.”

Marguerite’s features softened in sympathy. Out of the four siblings, Louis took his coffee sweetest. He used to put so much sugar in his cup that Adèle would make a funny face and ask how he could even stand it. That was usually Martin’s cue (if he was there) to laugh and say that, while normal human beings were made of flesh and blood, Louis was probably made of gingerbread and syrup.

The last time Louis had had to ‘endure’ that kind of good-natured ribbing, he had shot back, “See if I ever make _you_ gingerbread again!”

Funny how war and occupation had a way of making the silliest things weigh so heavily on a man’s mind. He would give anything to be able to make his big brother gingerbread again.

Marguerite put her chin in her hand and looked him in the eyes.

“How are you?” she asked softly. “How… how bad is it over there? I mean, really?”

Louis opened his mouth, thought about his answer, and closed it. The waitress chose this moment to put down two cups on the table; they both thanked her quietly. As soon as she was far enough Marguerite’s sharp eyes were back to examining him as though searching for dents or visible signs she should take personal revenge on the Germans for.

He wrapped his fingers around the cup and took a sip.

…At least the drink was hot. Even what passed for coffee at Stalag XIII had less malted barley in it.

“I got luckier than most,” he said finally. “The camp Kommandant is an idiot, but not a monster – just a pen-pusher who tends to skimp on things like coal, food, or blankets. Our senior POW officer usually has to con or scare him into being decent. Good thing he’s so good at that.”

“That’d be Colonel Hogan, right? He sounds nice.”

Louis mentally put everything he knew about the American into one big bag, looked into it, and tried to label it as ‘nice’.

“Well… he can be kind, and don’t get me wrong, he’s a good man – a great man, even – but I don’t know if ‘nice’ is the right word.”

“As long as he does right by you and the others, it’s good enough for me. Does he know you’re here?”

Had anyone else asked him that question, Louis would have been very suspicious. As it was, he only cursed the Nazis and the war and the fact that he had to be vague even to his closest family. Marguerite could be trusted, he knew that as intimately as he knew himself. But should she be captured and interrogated, for the greater good, they had to exchange as few sensitive informations as possible.

She read his hesitation on his face and made a dismissive gesture. “Forget it, it’s probably not your secret to tell. Just – when you write about the friends you’ve made, the… the not-so-bad things which happen sometimes that make you feel good… Is it all true, or just for our benefit so we don’t worry more than we already do?”

There was a smile in her voice that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and she fidgeted slightly with the handle of her cup.

Louis couldn’t help a smile.

“No, all that’s true. I hope you’ll get to meet them, once the war is over.”

“Me too.”

The words ‘once the war is over’ hung heavy in the short silence that followed. A year, or even six months ago, he might have said – had written, in fact – ‘someday’ instead. Not because the war was over for him; no matter how often he’d been told to stop fighting, he had never really let it register. Now there was hope enough that those words were starting to be a possible outcome rather than a dream, though, they had a finality that made them both exhilarating and infinitely fragile.

Marguerite acknowledged the moment, then took a sip of her ersatz coffee and smiled a genuine smile this time. “I could show off my English. I’ve improved beyond ‘ _my tailor is rich_ ’6, you know.”

“Kinch speaks very good French,” Louis pointed out. “You could talk in both languages.”

“Is that what you do?”

“No, I… don’t get to speak French a lot. Mostly English.” _And_ _some_ _German_ , he added in the privacy of his mind. Another secret he didn’t feel safe sharing with his own sister. This added a little sting to his elation at speaking his own language again for the first time in months, something which Marguerite picked up on quickly.

“You miss it, huh? At least you still have your accent. They haven’t taken that from you yet.”

Louis conceded a small grin.

“Well, it’s handy for Maurice Chevalier impersonations.” He downed the rest of his beverage, still reluctant to grant it the name of ‘coffee’, and took a deep breath. “How’s the family?”

Marguerite’s shoulders slumped a little. Her expression matched her posture.

“You know Maman was let go of a couple of months ago with a couple of other seamstresses—”

“What? No, I didn’t! I got a letter from her and Papa last Friday, she didn’t say anything about that!”

“She probably didn’t want to worry you. With the cloth shortage even the big couture houses are tightening their purse strings. There might be a job opening in the haberdashery department of the Printemps7, though, with their bloody ‘compulsory work service’ sending the remaining able men to Germany.” Marguerite’s eyes and what they said was perfectly familiar to LeBeau. He saw that simmering rage every time he looked into a mirror. “Papa still works with Uncle Baptiste at the garage. I’m pretty sure they’re keeping stuff they’re not supposed to keep in a few barrels in the back.”

“Like what?” whispered Louis, fear suddenly gripping him from the throat down.

“Fuel, weapons, ammunition – who knows?”

Louis let out a small strangled sound. Marguerite shushed him, looking like her own panic had had time to turn into dull but constant worry. “You know Papa, he can look like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I’m not sure even Maman knows.”

“But he’s sixty-eight, and Maman is sixty-three! They have no business putting themselves in danger like that! What if something happens to one of them? Or both?”

“You and I are both in the Underground too,” Marguerite pointed out. “And _you_ ’re supposed to be relatively safe where you are and be a prisoner, not a spy. It’s not like we’re in any position to tell them not to do anything dangerous.”

“I know.” Louis suppressed a shiver. The mental image of his parents and little sisters getting caught, tortured, and executed was making him physically ill. He made an effort not to look like it, and probably wasn’t very successful.

Marguerite ran her hands over her cheeks. She looked more tired than ever. “Adèle and Roger are doing all right, more or less. You know she was able to go back to teaching after the little one… After what happened? Because married women without children are allowed to work.” The bitterness that coloured her voice was impossible to miss. “Anyway, I think they _might_ be involved in something in their respective lycées8 – printing flyers, perhaps, or a clandestine paper – but they’re keeping things close to the vest.”

Once again, the fleeting expression on the face he knew as well as his own reflected his thoughts. Marguerite knew, intimately, that their sister and her husband were right to show circumspection – particularly if they belonged to a different cell or a different network – but it stung all the same. There never had been a secret that the four siblings couldn’t share before.

There was a pregnant pause before Louis finally worked up the courage to ask, “Have you heard from Martin recently?”

Marguerite dropped her hands in her lap and looked down.

“Not since August. He and Charles were in Bordeaux at the time, trying to find a way south to Spain. He told me they would pass the word if – when – they were safe.” She looked up, suddenly hopeful. “Would it be possible… I mean… Couldn’t you do something to help them? The people you work with – isn’t there _somebody_ who might help?”

Thinking about his family always brought complicated emotions to Louis. On top of the usual yearning that came from being separated too long from home and loved ones, shared by every man in camp – including probably the guards, to a certain extent – was a fierce worry for their physical well-being that never left him. Even the British and Australian prisoners, who felt, keenly and daily, the threat of German or Japanese bombs over their respective home towns and the subsequent sword of Damocles over their kith and kin, didn’t quite realise how terrifying the idea was of a foreign power like the Nazis having control over most of their everyday life. (Plus the burning shame of knowing that a lot of the people in charge had no qualms collaborating with the enemy – for ideology, profit, or both.)

That fear had increased tenfold when Louis had realised that people like Martin and Charles were getting arrested and sent to concentration camps.

Martin had always been a warm, steady presence in Louis’ childhood, the big brother through thick and thin who had taught him how to swim, play knucklebones, and recognise which herbs and flowers were edible. While he always was impeccably friendly and polite to girls and women, his siblings had never seen him with a girlfriend. Eventually, everyone came separately to either understanding why or shrugging it off. To most people, Martin and his flatmate Charles were ‘avowed bachelors’, too set in their ways to ever marry, when in truth they had been together longer than most couples Louis knew.

Sometimes you just had to take people as they were. The alternative was unthinkable.

Exactly what happened to the both of them after Martin had sent him that last letter in June, Louis had no idea. Considering the former ‘free zone’ – controlled by Vichy, so ‘free’ meant that there were no German soldiers, but the same laws were in effect, often harsher – was no longer German-free since the previous summer, nowhere was safe. Like many civilians, their only shot at safety was to either go for the borders, either Spanish or Swiss, or take a boat and cross the Channel. Martin’s letter had been deliberately vague about which he and Charles intended to aim for, and Louis’ worry had only grown since.

Marguerite’s question – almost a plea – tightened something painful in his chest. He had thought, quite a few times, of asking Colonel Hogan or their contacts in the Underground for help. But their orders were very clear – _t_ _o assist all escaping prisoners, cooperate with all friendly forces, and use every means to injure and harass the enemy_ – and while they could stretch them a little to include salvaging works of art or gold from the vaults of the Banque de France, the ‘pipeline’ they sent people through to the submarine and the English shore was restricted to Allied agents and defecting German soldiers. Civilians were only admitted inasmuch as they could bring something useful to the Allied cause.

Besides, using their networks to save Martin was to take the risk of Louis’ identity as a POW, and by extension everyone else’s, being exposed. Colonel Hogan would never allow it. Louis himself never would, either, which was why he had never spoken aloud about this. He just held on to the hope that he would never have to choose between his commitment to an Allied victory and the safety of his family.

Marguerite was staring at him, her shoulders still slumped. Seeing his proud, lively sister so despondent was yet another blow to his heart.

“No, our cell doesn’t… We’re too far, and not part of any of the big networks. There’s nothing I can do for him.” Louis braced himself for the inevitable argument; his sister had never been one to easily let go of something that was important to her.

Marguerite’s eyes blazed with a – finally – familiar light and she opened her mouth. Then she closed it, looked away, and rubbed her face. When Louis caught her eyes again, they were very bright, but the light had gone out.

The silence that followed was leaden. Louis realised he had almost been wishing for an argument, even if he had no idea what to say. At least he would have been on familiar ground. The silences they usually shared were companionable, conniving, or, when they butted heads – which was often enough, as the two middle children were the most hot-tempered of the four – stubbornly angry.

There was none of that here. Only a void between them barely filled by anger and guilt, mostly self-directed, that could only be bridged by the return of all siblings to the fold and the invaders getting sent back where they came from. The former could not happen without the latter. This much was clear.

Louis grabbed his sister’s hand. Marguerite looked up from the table, her eyes puffy and red.

“We _have_ to beat them,” he said fiercely, and found he didn’t have to specify or develop. “Whether Martin and Charles are all right or not. They _have_ to know that they can’t murder people because of what they believe in, who their parents are, or who they love. We have to beat them and those who support them so badly nobody will ever think of starting something like this ever again.”

“I know.” Marguerite wiped her eyes with her thumb, her other hand gripping back her brother’s. “I know, it’s just… Sometimes I’m tired of fighting. I want all of this to be over. I want those bastards _gone_ , and I want Martin home, and you to come back for good…”

It was a perfectly natural thing to feel and admit, but knowing Marguerite, the confession was nothing less than monumental. How much did that small crack in her armour cost her? Louis was hit suddenly by a powerful need to take his sister in his arms, like he had not felt for over a decade. He gripped her hand tighter.

Marguerite LeBeau never remained defeated for long. She drew a shuddering breath and gripped his hand tighter. After a discreet glance around her eyes locked on to his, the expression in them darker and more intense than he’d ever seen.

“Be careful, Louis,” she said in a low voice. “Please, _please_ be careful. I can’t afford to lose another brother.”

“We did not lose Martin,” Louis stated, putting all of his shaky faith and the certainty he did not really feel in every syllable. “We didn’t. When all this is over – when it’s safe – he’ll be back. Charles, too.”

Marguerite made to say something, but only let out a small sigh. Everything was written plainly on her face; she didn’t need to voice it aloud. Louis understood each word as though she’d shouted them.

Hope was as unreliable as it was tenuous. The more you had, the harder it broke you if it failed. It was a lure, a shiny trap. Before the war Louis had never truly witnessed anything so insubstantial shattering men so thoroughly.

But unlike the cold certainty of death, hope, like faith, never needed proof. This was precisely what made it so dangerous, so easy to hold on to when all else failed. This, too, Louis had witnessed time and time again since the start of the war, and especially since he had ended up in Stalag XIII. That faint but tenacious whisper of hope had been a constant companion for years, demanding evidence from the tempting despair that dogged his steps.

_Give me solid proof that I can’t escape._

_Give me solid proof that my family aren’t safe and sound._

_Give me solid proof that we can’t build and use a radio right under the Germans’ noses._

_Give me solid proof that what we plan to do can’t be done._

_Give me solid proof that my brother is dead._

Hope had given Colonel Hogan momentum to drive all this way, deep into a foreign country occupied by the enemy, with only the bare bones of a plan, to save the woman he loved. Hope alone wouldn’t save them, but it laid a groundwork without which they could not build their plan.

Marguerite had always been the ‘expect the worst but hope for the best’ kind of woman. She had to know that faint voice, too.

“I’m really glad you were driving that car, you know that?” she finally said, her voice trembling slightly. Louis gave her his best attempt at a smile in return, and hoped it wasn’t too shaky.

“Me too.”

He gave her fingers one last squeeze and let go of her hand with regret. Time was short; he couldn’t afford to linger too long in the café. Who knew what kind of information Colonel Hogan had been able to get from Tiger – and, more importantly in a way, what kind of state he had found her in.

Marguerite pulled her sleeves down on her hands – the draft got colder every time someone opened and closed the door – and drew herself up.

“I don’t suppose you listen to Radio Londres a lot, do you?” she asked, her voice finally close to normal. Louis answered with a non-committal shrug.

“Not a lot, no. We’re not exactly supposed to have radios.” Not that it usually stopped them. “Why?”

“Well, they’ve had Pierre Dac broadcasting lately and he’s hilarious, as usual, but mostly because they also pass personal messages in code. If I hear anything from Martin that I can’t write in a letter, I’ll try to pass it on to you through there.”

“Same here,” said Louis, making a mental note to try to listen to the French broadcast of the BBC more often. “How about ‘ _Longtemps je me suis couché de bonne heure 9_’ if he’s safe?”

This startled a snort out of Marguerite. Marcel Proust and his works had long divided the siblings: Martin and Adèle, who loved his books, and Louis and Marguerite, who loathed them. Both factions mocked one another relentlessly whenever the subject came up.

“Perfect. And…” Louis swallowed. “If he’s not?”

Marguerite was silent for a few seconds, her eyes downcast.

“ _Vers elle s’e_ _n va_ _tout mon espoir 10_,” she said softly.

In Louis’ mind Josephine Baker’s playful voice sang the next lines, ‘ _J’ai deux amours, mon pays et Paris…_ ’

His throat closed, and he nodded silently.

They paid for their drinks – which definitely didn’t deserve the name ‘coffee’ in Louis’ opinion – and stepped out. Outside, the sky was still blue, the air still brisk, and Paris still profoundly wrong with hateful posters on the walls and black-letter street signs.

“What’s your schedule for the day?” Marguerite asked once she had buttoned up her coat and tightened her scarf around her neck. Louis exhaled and watched his breath go up.

“Trick an ogre and rescue a princess, I think. You?”

“Sort mail and queue for flour and suet. Care to swap?”

They both chuckled. Then Marguerite cocked her head and shot him a sharp glance.

“Careful if there’s a woman involved, Louis. You know how you get sometimes.”

Louis stared back, nettled.

“Meaning what?”

“Remember Mariette Taddei?”

He did, vividly.

“That was years ago!” he protested, hoping his face did not betray too much the fact that his head seemed to have caught on fire. At least his ears were warm now. “I’m not going to make a fool of myself just because a pretty woman bats her eyelashes at me. How stupid do you think I am?”

Marguerite’s grin flashed, unexpected.

“Don’t answer that,” Louis added hastily with a mock glare.

Silence fell between them, turning his frown and Marguerite’s smirk into a wistful smile.

“I wish I could let Maman, Papa, and Adèle know you’re all right,” she said, “relatively speaking. I guess it’ll just be one more secret between all of us.”

“But we’ll share this one, at least,” said Louis, clinging to his thin hope. “That’s something.”

On impulse, and because he was there and able to, he threw his arms around his sister. She held him back just as tightly.

“I don’t know what you do for the Resistance, but you do know I’m incredibly proud of you, don’t you?” he whispered in her ear, about five centimetres higher than his. Of his whole family, only Adèle was smaller than him, and then only by two or three centimetres.

Louis didn’t get to play big brother very often since the girls had reached adulthood, especially since he and Marguerite were quite close in age. It was yet another habit he had come close to losing over the past three years and a half. From the look on her face, though, this kind of comfort from her little big brother was exactly what she’d needed.

“Likewise,” she murmured. “I’ve been proud of you ever since you mastered the recipe for Papi’s11 choreg12, but this is the next best thing.”

Louis chuckled.

“You might as well come clean and admit you only like me for my cooking.”

“Damn right I do.”

This time they both sniggered before letting go of each other.

By unspoken agreement, neither said “Be careful”. It didn’t really need to be said, anyway. They also didn’t say “I’ll miss you”, and they especially didn’t say “Be safe”. It felt too much to ask of one another, considering their current clandestine activities.

What they did say was “Au revoir”. “We _will_ see each other again, come hell or high water” was implied.

Louis only looked back once, just long enough to etch into his memory the image of his sister walking down the street at an energetic pace, her curly hair bouncing up and down her shoulders.

Then he hurried back to the Gestapo headquarters, Colonel Hogan, and their self-appointed rescue mission, doing his best to put away the last dozen minutes in a secret corner of his mind.

His family was doing everything their could to survive the war. He’d just have to do his best, as well.

* * *

Marguerite had to steel herself to not look back at her departing brother as she walked away. Leaving Louis behind like this had to be one of the hardest things she’d ever done – no need to make it worse.

She did stop before turning the corner before returning to her post office. She forced herself to breathe, slowly, deeply, trying to put the armour back on before facing people she worked with but ultimately didn’t all trust.

The unlikely encounter, painful as it had been to find out Louis was enmeshed in the same kind of dangerous underground activity she was, probably even more dangerous, had rekindled a hope which she hadn’t wanted to see had been flickering. Of course she couldn’t talk with Adèle or her parents about Resistance work, hers or theirs. Of course her brothers’ absences – both her brothers, plus her brother-in-law in anything but law – felt like dark holes in her soul, a constant knot in her insides, even when her thoughts were elsewhere. But knowing that Louis was, in effect, still fighting, and being confronted with the living proof of it, admittedly did her a world of good. She _had_ to believe Martin and Charles were safe. They, too, were fighters, in their own way.

Marguerite took one last deep breath and glanced around her. The wall she had stopped near to bore the same awful propaganda posters about collaboration and the dangers of Judaism, Bolshevism, and Freemasonry; she was alone in the street apart from a few cyclists and the occasional taxicab.

She put a hand on the wall, ostensibly to steady herself as she got a pebble out from her shoe. When she straightened up, her fingers tightened. Quite naturally, in one fluid gesture, she ripped one of the posters from the wall.

It was only one poster. It would be replaced.

She was only one woman, she was alone, and she was afraid.

But maybe – just maybe – it would be enough to rekindle someone else’s hope.

* * *

110°C = 50°F.

2“ _It’s you that—_ ”

3“ _What are/do you—_ ”

4“ _We can also speak French, you know._ ”

5Old French term for a payphone. They started getting replaced by phone booths in the 1970s – both are now extremely rare. They were never as iconic as the British red boxes, sadly, nor nearly as well-designed.

6‘My tailor is rich’ is the first sentence of a very famous French foreign-language course, the ‘Méthode Assimil’, founded in the late 1920s. It quickly became and remained a meme even after it was removed, mainly because it’s a grammatically correct but perfectly useless sentence in a normal conversation. Very similar to the English French-language equivalent ‘ _la plume de ma tante_ ’ (‘my aunt’s quill’) in that way.

7The ‘Spring’ (ie. the season), one of the big department stores in Paris.

8High school. Education being single-sex at the time, Adèle is a (French language and literature) teacher in a girls’ school, and Roger teaches music in a boys’ school.

9“For a long time, I went to bed early.” First line of _Du côté de chez Swann_ , first novel in Marcel Proust’s autobiographical saga _A la recherche du temps perdu_.

10“To her all my hope goes” – the “her” being the city of Paris.

11“grandpa”, “granddad”. It’s how I called my maternal grandfather. For bonus points, the exactly same word in Armenian has the same meaning and pronunciation, which is nice since in my headcanon LeBeau’s maternal grandfather was Armenian (married to a Basque woman, a headcanon that has at least a flimsy root in canon since in “The Gypsy” Hogan talks about LeBeau’s “Basque blood”).

12What the Greek call Tsoureki (τσουρέκι), an Armenian sweet bread made during Easter.


End file.
